by J. N. Chaney
“Have you contacted me to offer your unconditional surrender?” Warren asked, checking on Wraith Squadron’s progress. “If so, I’m ready to accept.”
The man laughed, a real one that sounded like it’d come directly from his belly. In fact, Warren thought he could hear the tinkle of ice in a glass. Was he so relaxed he was drinking? The thought infuriated the cyborg.
With the press of a button, Warren cut the connection. There was no use getting into a battle of words with someone like that. Not when missiles and beam cannons spoke so much louder.
“Engage your targets whenever you like,” Warren transmitted to Oplin. “Make it hurt.”
“My pleasure,” returned the pilot.
Warren watched the display at the front of the bridge, forcing himself not to engage too deeply with the squadron. Had he wanted to, he could feel what their cybernetic bodies were doing, seen through their eyes, and know how each of them felt. Doing so took a lot of attention, though, and he was needed on the bridge. He had to keep most of his focus there.
Half of Wraith Squadron released missiles, leaving ten in reserve.
The fighters responded by launching their own and taking up positions in front of the destroyer to defend it.
Warren spotted the problem before the sensor officer reported it. The mines were moving—not fast, but they weren’t still anymore. It looked like someone or something was directing them to cut off any chance the Wraiths might have of escaping. It wasn’t just a few—it was hundreds. Only one thing could be controlling and coordinating all of them at the same time. They had an AI.
Warren sent a message to the communications officer to start searching for a signal. He accessed his memories and sent the officer the frequency of the signal Lukov’s team had detected emanating from the moon. He’d find the enemy AI, and he’d destroy it.
“One down!” announced Oplin.
“Confirmed,” the sensor officer reported.
Wraith squadron moved through and between the mines and incoming missiles like a school of fish. They were of one mind, swarming the enemy vessels with their little beam cannons, but held their missiles in reserve. Warren didn’t need to warn them about noticing the mines were moving. The moment he had become aware of it, so did they.
Suddenly, one of the pilots became excited, but it had nothing to do with the battle. He’d discovered a signal. It was short-lived. No more than a burst of information. The others began watching for it, trying to narrow down the source.
“Watch your back!” shouted Oplin. “Bravo Flight, split off. They’re corralling us.”
“Roger,” replied Baker, the Bravo Flight leader. Half the fighters separated from the swarm like the teeth of a zipper separating. Alpha Flight pressed their enemy from the front. The Stingers didn’t have shields, though. They weren’t designed for prolonged engagements like this, so the pilots couldn’t do much but harass the remaining enemy. By separating, they’d effectively split their enemy’s attention. But it wouldn’t last long.
“I’m detecting several launches from the planet’s surface, sir,” reported the sensor officer. “Looks like more fighters. Six confirmed. Same model.”
“We’re in missile range,” announced the weapons officer. “So long as they don’t clip one of those mines.”
That was the risk. The Ruthless needed to remain far enough away to stay out of the enemy’s weapons range, but close enough to find clear paths through the mines. Warren decided on a third option.
“I’m taking control of the weapons,” he announced. “Keep the missile ports loaded and let me know if there’s any trouble.” He’d be cutting it close, trying to split his attention this many ways. A quick check of one of the viewscreens confirmed there was no other choice. If he wanted to run, it wasn’t going to happen—not today. The hole they’d carved through the mines had closed. They were committed.
Warren dedicated some of his attention to keeping Wraith Squadron abreast of what he was planning. If anyone had a problem with it, they weren’t saying anything. In fact, nobody was speaking at all. He hoped they’d notice what he was doing. Otherwise, this would go very badly.
GOT YOU, BOSS
The message was from Baker. He hoped it meant someone besides him was listening because there wasn’t any other way they could win.
Warren aimed the ship’s main cannons and all forward-facing point-defense weapons at the same spot. He didn’t expect to do any serious damage to their enemy, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to plow a path.
Beams lanced out from the bow of the Ruthless, vaporizing some mines while triggering others. At the same time, he launched six missiles. Alpha Flight saw it coming and spread out to make room a split second before the weapons fired, but for one pilot, it hadn’t been enough.
LINCOURT: KIA
RETRIEVAL DATE: 2486,04,11
The message felt like a slap. Warren had been the one who pulled the trigger, but at the last moment, one of the mines had reversed course. It was like whatever was controlling them had anticipated the move. Maybe it had.
One of the enemy fighters managed to destroy a missile before it got too close. Another shot at a missile but only managed to damage it. The weapon began to spin faster and faster until it came apart. Two others struck the destroyer’s shield, and according to the information Warren saw, punched a hole right through it. The last missile struck the enemy ship directly in the center of its sharp-edged bow.
The explosion was brief—no more than a flash of light. When it concluded, the destroyer was still here. It was damaged, but nowhere near out of the fight. Commander Fornsworth proved it by returning fire.
“Six missiles inbound,” the sensor officer reported.
Warren released control of the forward point defense cannons but kept the main guns for himself. He was still near maximum range, which meant he couldn’t do much damage, but he fired anyway.
The Trident began juking, making little movements in all directions while still maintaining a course, more or less, directly toward the Ruthless.
Alpha Flight resumed their attack, taking out another fighter, but one was hit by a point defense cannon. It spun off from the battle while the rest of the pilots destroyed the second of six defending the Trident.
“Bravo Flight is attacking the Trident’s rear,” announced the sensor officer. He sounded excited.
Warren focused his attention on the hole in his enemy’s shield but changed his mind when it launched more missiles. He fired at them immediately, destroying three before they’d traveled more than a hundred meters toward them. It was enough to cause one other to malfunction. That one began to spin and struck the aft of a Commonwealth fighter. The missile tore through its hull, sending pieces of the ship spinning away. These bounced off the Trident’s shield, causing little white sparks as they danced across its surface.
Two fighters peeled away from the battle to go deal with Bravo Flight, who was peppering the Trident’s exposed rear with their beam cannons. Just before the enemy came into range, they launched four missiles then peeled off and headed around the far side of the ship. All four struck, causing several secondary explosions as internal systems detonated. Then there was a flash of light Warren could feel through his circuits. It stunned him for a second. When he recovered, the Trident was gone, one of the fighters was hightailing it back toward the planet, and the last was coming apart under the combined fire of the squadron. It disappeared in a flash and became a cloud of expanding particles and gas.
“Damn, looks like we nailed the reactor,” said Willy. “Maybe we should do that first next time?”
“At ease,” intoned Oplin. “Head back to the Ruthless to refuel and rearm.”
“You okay?” asked Hendrose. “That was a big reaction. Basically, an EM burst. I’ll check you over. It may have damaged something. We’re partly protected because of the ship’s hull, but I want to be sure.” He was approaching Warren with a datapad and an expression of concern.
&nb
sp; “I’m fine,” said Warren, waving him off. “Focus on the battle.”
“The six incoming fighters are turning around,” announced the sensor officer. “They’re headed back toward the planet.”
The bridge crew cheered, but Warren did not. Instead, he studied the data on the view screens and queried the war computer. It recommended he turn directly toward the planet, brake at the last possible moment, and launch the dropships while providing cover with the main cannons. It wasn’t taking the orbital defenses into account, and Warren wondered why.
18
“We’ll be ready to head back out in about five minutes,” reported Oplin. “It wouldn’t take so long if we had more than one cyborg helping us load this stuff.”
“Stay put for now,” said Warren. Something about the orbital defense platforms still bothered him. They were far away, and only one was visible near the north pole of Turano. It was too bad the main display wasn’t an actual window. Warren thought he might be able to zoom in his vision and get a better look at it. According to the war computer, it was a concrete sphere, polished to a dull shine. Its diameter was exactly 500 meters, and according to what the sensors could detect, it wasn’t emitting any signals or background radiation.
“King,” transmitted Warren. “Tell me about these orbital defenses. I’m not seeing what they’re supposed to do.”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “All I know is that they’re trouble. I wasn’t on the bridge when we went down. I was on Deck-3 aft trying to put a fire out.”
Warren took inventory of the situation. There were still more than a 100,000 mines surrounding the planet. His ship’s shields were holding, thanks to the point defense system, but if they slowed or changed direction much, that could change. It still felt like he was being corralled, but into what, he didn’t know.
“We’ll be in range to launch the dropships in thirty minutes,” the sensor officer announced. “Looks like the fighters that were headed to us have landed somewhere on the planet, but I’ve lost track of them.”
“Probably an underground hangar like we have,” Warren mused aloud.
“Wraith Squadron is ready to launch,” transmitted Oplin.
“Stay put for now,” said Warren as he studied the display. Every few seconds, he’d click a button on his armrest and zoom in on one particular group of details, then he’d zoom back out. A query to the war computer got the same response. It recommended he ignore the orbital defense but offered no explanation. The feeling of unease continued to gnaw at him.
“I think the—no, I’m sure, sir,” the sensor officer said. “The mines are changing direction. Something’s different.”
Warren saw it too and would have risen from his seat if he’d been able. Something had changed. Whatever trap he’d just flown them into had been sprung.
The sensor office began to speak, then stopped.
“Talk to me,” ordered Warren. “What’s happening?”
“The orbital defense platform, sir. It’s… coming apart? No, that’s not right. I’m sorry, sir, I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Warren dedicated a portion of the sensors to the platform and focused them on it like a laser. It would reduce the range of the systems overall, but he needed to know what was happening. Then he spotted it. The sensors did, in fact, indicate that something had separated from the concrete orb. It wasn’t a missile. There was no energy signature, no venting of gasses, no magnetic thrust—nothing to indicate the thing headed toward them was a weapon. Nothing except its trajectory. According to the sensors, the object would intercept them before they reached the planet.
Two more icons appeared on the display. Then four more, one right after another. It took a few seconds for the war computer to figure out each of their trajectories. When it did, Warren’s burning confusion wasn’t quenched. It was inflamed.
“I think I’ve got it, sir,” the sensor officer replied. “Those look like flechettes. Maybe twenty kilograms each. They’re moving fast. Really fast. The first will intercept us about ten minutes before we can launch the drop ships unless we alter course or velocity, sir.”
If Warren doubled his velocity, a different projectile would strike them. If he slowed to one-quarter of his speed—the slowest he’d be willing to go—not only could the platform possibly take some more shots at them, it had already launched a projectile for that.
If he changed direction, he’d run into a thick cloud of mines—one the point defense and main guns might not be enough to punch through. He thought about launching Wraith Squadron to take out what they could, but they were fragile compared to the Ruthless. He had no doubt his fellow cyborgs would try if ordered to do so, but they wouldn’t stand a chance.
“What should I do, sir?” asked the helmsman. He looked worried, as did most of the rest of the bridge crew.
“Stay the course,” replied Warren. “Sensors, see what else you can tell me about that projectile.”
“Roger, sir,” the man replied.
According to the display, Warren had to make a decision soon. If they continued on their current course, the Ruthless would be struck in just over fifteen minutes. If they changed course, they might buy another minute or two—or they might be finished off even sooner. It was a double envelopment, otherwise known as a pincer maneuver, Warren realized. And he’d flown them right into it.
This, he assumed, was what the Conquest had encountered. Or, it might’ve been mortally wounded by Commander Fornsworth’s small fleet. Either way, they hadn’t made it all the way to the planet’s surface unscathed.
“I have more details now, sir,” the sensor officer said. Warren listened as he explained what he was seeing, but he also read it off the main display.
The projectile was indeed a flechette. It was moving more than two percent the speed of light. At that velocity, it would punch through the shield with no problems. It would also punch through the ships and make a nice hole on the way out. It appeared to be made of high-density steel, but it contained the energy of a small nuclear bomb. The orbital platform was its launcher, and the concrete was probably lined with lead inside to shield what must have been an independent fusion reactor. The hole the projectile had emerged from could’ve been tiny—too small for the sensors to spot at range. It was perfect.
Warren was out of ideas. He sent his discoveries to the war computer, ordered it to package the information into a single data transmission, and sent it to each of the cyborgs along with a request to find a solution. This wasn’t a problem he’d be able to fix on his own. Nobody would survive unless they worked together to find a solution.
A few seconds later, the feelings of panic and anger from the rest of the cyborgs washed over him, but it didn’t last long. They quickly decided the situation wasn’t hopeless, and they were determined not to go down without a fight. The rest were wholly focused on the problem, working toward a solution.
“Got it,” transmitted Oplin. “We use the Ruthless as a shield. Drive this son of a bitch straight at the planet. We aim for something important. A lot of the ship will burn up in the atmosphere, but enough will make it down to ruin someone’s day. The cyborgs and crew come in behind the thing in its wake. Any mines that try to follow us or get caught in the planet’s gravity well get burned up. We get to the surface and start kicking some ass.”
“With hundreds of non-cyborgs to protect?” asked Warren. “That wasn’t the plan. They were supposed to stay with the Ruthless to provide cover. It would get at least most of us to the planet’s surface, but the war computer would be gone. Keep working on it.”
“Maybe we throw a bunch of shit out the airlocks and whatnot?” offered Willy. “The mines behind us crash into the stuff, we change course enough, and maybe there won’t be so many? Then we can get out of here and make a new plan for next time? Live to fight another day?”
“I don’t think we could destroy enough of the mines to make a difference,” replied Warren. According to what he could see, mines were shifti
ng all the way from the other side of the planet. It was probably to provide as much coverage as possible on this side. There’d be no way for the furthest to reach the Ruthless before this was all over, so it must’ve been an intimidation tactic—a show of force.
“We’ve got ten minutes,” transmitted Warren. “Any other ideas? The sooner, the better.”
“Yeah,” said Rigby. “We still have all of Wraith squadron out in front, staying between the main guns and the point-defense. We blast everything in our path as the Ruthless accelerates. Then we get ahead of that one that’s gonna intercept us. We go as fast as we can while still being able to blast them.”
“What about once we get past them?” asked Oplin. “We can’t land the Ruthless, and we need it to get back to Reotis. Not to mention, if we die out there without the war computer? Without the biologicals?”
“At least we’ll make it to the surface,” she replied. “We dump it in a swamp or something—someplace human. Maybe right in the water.”
“It’ll sink,” said Willy. “And unless you find a real deep bog, it won’t make a difference, Except for getting it all muddy. It’ll still break when we drop it.”
“What if the crew stays aboard?” she asked. “We launch drop ships, bring the Stingers in to cover the drop, and the crew puts the thing back in orbit—“
“It can’t do that,” interjected Warren. “It was never meant to enter atmosphere. Even at full power, the best you could expect is for the Ruthless to break up as it tried to escape Turano’s gravity. This ship was built in space, and the engineers expected it to stay there. That’s why we have dropships.”
“Can we disassemble the war computer?” asked Rigby. “Take it with us and reassemble it once we get to the surface?”
“Not a chance,” said Warren. “It’s too delicate and far too complicated. Maybe if we had a week or so, but no, there’s no chance to do it. Get everyone loaded and finish the job in the next eight minutes.”
